


the only sense you can trust

by squidmemesinc



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Frottage, I have no idea how to tag this tbh, M/M, supernatural empaths, the abuse is not related to the ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5175248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the way, Yahaba became his sanctuary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only sense you can trust

**Author's Note:**

> Me, a squid, sweating profusely.
> 
> I thought of this idea a long time ago and it was actually part of a much bigger AU but I got embarrassed about it and deleted all my notes, so if I wanted to write more I'd have to think it all out again. 
> 
> I get nervous about posting AU stuff because I have no sense of how weird they are. Also this has some implied weird abuse stuff in it so I feel bad about that, but it isn't described in detail, so?? Hopefully it's,,, okay.

Red, pounding and flashing, blood orange and black. Words like sirens, loud and blaring, drowning out the actual speech. The sound of shattering glass on the floor, the imagined taste of blood and asphalt, and it’s too much. He slams the door behind him and doesn’t even hear the windows shudder.

Kyoutani can barely see, and it’s almost dangerous for him to go out when it’s like this, since keeping track of the cars and the streets is almost impossible. Every sense clouds up with strangers’ emotions, rushing in as if through open flood gates now that his defenses are down. He flinches every time he staggers past another person, their energies leaking uncomfortably into his head, affecting his whole body—this one, a sickly green speaking of some kind of jealousy or irritation, tinges with the red and making a muddy brown that threatens to make him sick—worse than that, a purple-ish blue, the stewing melancholy of one bad day after another, dragging him down in despair that isn’t even his own—almost worse is the bright yellows of someone in a good mood, tearing him in separate directions as his mind holds on to the anger he just left.

Whatever it is, mixing them is too much. He staggers against a wall, groping out for it with one hand to feel what he can’t see. Sometimes touch is the only sense he can trust. It speaks the softest through the cacophony of sights and smells and tastes. The bristly, rough texture of the brick tickles his fingertips. He leans against them and breathes hard through his nose and mouth, trying to calm himself.

This street is too busy, and people keep moving past him. He can’t see their looks, but feels their distaste from the scene he’s making, breathing hard against a wall in broad daylight and looking like a drunkard or a crazy mess. He stumbles off, knowing it’s probably better to keep moving in hopes of moving into a less populated scene, and then, eventually, to his sanctuary. _It’s not that far_ , he tells himself. If only he can find the way.

There’s enough muscle memory there in whatever part of his brain and body is functioning to nearly guide him there on autopilot, which is good. He’s glad he’s gotten to this point, but not the necessity of the journey. Minutes pass in a haze of color and sensation with no sense of time attached to them other than ‘too long.’ He can catch glimpses of the streets and landmarks telling him he’s going in the right direction, so he continues on. He walks with his hands shoved in his pockets, clenched into fists with nails deep in his palms, trying to anchor himself with a pain that’s real instead of just something in his head, manufactured by this disease no one else seems to share or understand.

It’s not that far, after all. The walking helps, and the flashes are more consistent now, and duller, rather than sporadic and intense. It’s fading already. He feels a little less sick as he reaches the building and knocks on the door. If there’s an answer, he doesn’t hear it. He waits, and still no one comes, so he slumps to the ground and pulls his knees to his chest, pressing gently at his closed eyes with his fingers.

There isn’t as much noise here from other people. They’re locked away in their own apartments, enough meters away from him that it diffuses the signal. No one is yelling. No one is crying. He breathes more evenly. Red becomes orange, becomes paler and less pigmented. He tastes less dirt on his tongue, begins to hear the accelerating scrubbing of car tires against the road, people chattering calmly as they pass by below.

A hand lands on his knee and startles him. Kyoutani jerks his head up. “I was…” Not asleep. In limbo. He doesn’t finish the thought, but stands and moves out of the way so Yahaba can unlock the door. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He speaks quietly, not looking at him, but is sincere, and pushes open the door. “Sorry I was late. If you’d called me or something I would have come back sooner.”

“It’s mostly gone now,” Kyoutani admits, feeling a little ridiculous for being here now that there’s no immediate problem. He doesn’t mention that he probably couldn’t have operated his phone. He doesn’t even think he brought it with him.

Yahaba leaves the door open as he takes off his shoes. “Come in anyway.”

He does. Kyoutani sinks into the couch as Yahaba goes towards the kitchen, closes his eyes again, watching the last traces of color bleed out of his eyelids, replaced with the more organic and untouchable flashes of blood moving through them. After a minute, something cold presses into his knee. He wraps his hand around the glass of water and takes it from Yahaba, having one small sip before setting it on the table. The colors are gone, but the cool just mixes with the tang in his mouth and makes it metallic and unpalatable, so instead he sits and feels vulnerable and stupid.

Kyoutani has known Yahaba since high school. At first, they didn’t get along. Looking back on it, that was probably when everything started. The weird senses he would get from people, weird feelings. Nothing like it is now, or worse, how it was a few years ago; but it was more than he wanted to deal with, so he limited his interaction with people. Yahaba was just another obstacle in his plan for avoidance. Except he made a point of making himself unavoidable, until Kyoutani realized that the fire that seemed to emanate from him was kinder than cruel. It wasn’t hostility, but something else. When things started getting worse, more pronounced, Kyoutani found he needed someone who felt that way toward him to escape to when things got bad. The fire cooled to something comforting and pleasant, like water. Yahaba’s water now can flush out anything in his system.

Yahaba is sitting next to him, saying nothing, not looking at him. Not to be distant, but to give him space. Kyoutani draws in one breath after another, smoothing out the residual shake from his lungs. Things stay colorless. He can see everything in the room clearly, and his headache recedes gradually.

A hand takes his gently, palm held loosely over his with the fingers curled underneath. Kyoutani turns his own over and threads their fingers together, leaning over to kiss him firmly, a little desperately, his opposite palm going to Yahaba’s hair and crumpling the strands. Yahaba kisses back, matching the insistency of Kyoutani’s movements, satisfying his ache for genuine compassion in a way that makes his chest constrict and float. He makes a soft little noise when Kyoutani bites his lip and scrapes his teeth along his tongue in return. The sensation removes the last of the angry flavors, filling it with Yahaba’s instead—salted caramel and peppermint tea.

Yahaba shifts under him, pulling away and standing, keeping hold of his hand to pull him wordlessly into the bedroom. They shed their clothes in between more kisses and collapse into the mess of blankets, ending up under some of them and on top of others. Yahaba’s lips and teeth are at his neck, sucking and biting the tension out of him. His fingers are digging into Kyoutani’s hip, blunt nails tracing up his side. Kyoutani’s cock twitches and he pulls Yahaba closer to him, aligning them from chest to hip. He squeezes Yahaba’s ass and grinds against his cock, earning a small hum from him and a refreshed vigor put towards marking up his collarbone.

Kyoutani moves his leg from under Yahaba’s so he can have him fully between them, and can pull him down to buck up against him. Yahaba breaks away from his neck and hovers with part lips poised over Kyoutani’s, letting loose a soft moan. He licks his own lips, thrusting hard down against him, arms tensed against Kyoutani’s shoulders. “ _Kentarou_ ,” he murmurs gently, ducking his face into his neck. Kyoutani wraps one arm around his waist and grips his thigh right below his ass with the other. Their fervor is slow but insistent, and the mood is calm. There are no thoughts in Yahaba’s head other than this; he’s focused, a mellow, nameless color, a taste that’s cool and warm at the same time, refreshing. Kyoutani can hear the movements of their bodies, the sound of his breathing, their skin shifting together and against the bedclothes.

He nudges at the side of Yahaba’s head with his cheek for a kiss, smiling tentatively for the first time today when he gets his wish. He squeezes Yahaba’s thick thigh and licks around his mouth where it’s soft and wet and warm. Yahaba’s teeth find their way to his lip soon after, sucking at the heft of it, releasing with a light, wet click that’s chased down by another kiss. Kyoutani moans at the building feeling in his abdomen and thrusts harder, knowing his release coming up on him. He splays his hand across Yahaba’s back, tightening his fingertips across the muscle, feeling them slide slightly over the thin layer of sweat, and nips at his ear.

“Shigeru,” he breathes out, eyes closed, against Yahaba’s jaw.

“Come on, Ken, it’s okay.” Yahaba’s hand is in his hair, thumbing across the longer parts over his forehead that have grown out and are showing dark at the roots. Kyoutani groans and comes, adding to the slickness between them, helping him thrust through his orgasm. He keeps his eyes pinched shut and doesn’t let go of Yahaba until he presses a meaningful kiss to his temple and pulls his body against Kyoutani’s hands.

He flops over onto his back, taking himself into his own hand, but Kyoutani follows him, wrestling with the blankets to get positioned between his legs now. He pushes Yahaba’s hand away so he can take him into his mouth, giving a hard and immediate suck. He’s breathless from coming, but he works insistently on his slick, hard cock, milking soft moans and gasps from Yahaba until he shudders and comes. He swallows three times and tugs some of the blankets up with him when he settles next to Yahaba.

They barely touch, comforted enough by a brush of shoulders or fingertips for now as they’re regulating their breathing and heart rates.

“Thank you,” Kyoutani says quietly, after a few minutes.

“You’re welcome,” Yahaba says back, equally quiet. Neither of them moves aside from the gentle rise and fall of chests for a moment, then Yahaba turns over and cradles the space between them with his body. He puts a hand on Kyoutani’s side, curling his fingers loosely over his skin, and closes his eyes.


End file.
